Her name was Ying, without a surname—just a single, solitary character. The man who gave her life acknowledged the Xiao family bloodline that flowed in her veins, yet refused to recognize her as his daughter. In his eyes, she was merely the product of a drunken encounter, conceived when he, in his intoxication, had taken a lowly palace maid. That unremarkable maid, neither beautiful nor clever, received his favor and bore a daughter—nothing more.

After her birth, he came to see her and named her according to the Vermillion Bird Branch’s naming customs: Ying. There was no imperial edict announcing her birth to the world, nor any apparent intention to enter her name in the clan records. After casually giving her a name, he abandoned both mother and daughter in a desolate side palace, never to concern himself with them again.

Ying—the state of faint light. To him, she was perhaps just that: a weak glimmer that could fade away without consequence.

She grew up in a vast palace hall where sunlight rarely reached, enduring the contemptuous glances of palace maids and eunuchs, the caustic remarks of the head eunuchs, and occasional arrogant scrutiny from the ranked consorts. In this magnificent yet cruel forbidden palace, she grew like wild grass in a dark corner.

At age three, her timid mother, who spent her days hiding in their chambers holding her while crying, finally hanged herself one clear morning. She watched the entire process calmly. When the first ray of dawn touched that frail body, she opened the door and called for the duty eunuch.

Her mother’s body was hastily disposed of. Then, for the second time since her birth, she met her father. The man sat behind his broad desk, his face pale and refined, rubbing his temples with an expression of lazy weariness. “Would you like to stay with Noble Consort Mei from now on?”

“No,” the four-year-old spoke her mind for the first time before others, but with firm resolution. “I want to be alone.”

After only the briefest pause, that slightly hoarse, elegant voice behind the imperial desk spoke again: “As you wish.”

Without a moment’s hesitation—as if even spending time thinking about her was excessive. Court officials arrived for an audience, and she was hurried out by eunuchs. This brief conversation ended abruptly, and until his unexpected death four years later, she never saw him again.

After her mother’s death, she was moved to a remote small palace, with an elderly palace maid who usually dozed in the sun assigned to care for her.

The old maid was often nowhere to be found, but she managed to entertain herself. The palace garden was overgrown with weeds—catching grasshoppers, cicadas, poking at birds’ nests. After spending a winter in this deserted courtyard, as winter turned to spring, she met him.

That early spring afternoon, sunlight danced warmly between the glazed tiles and red walls. As she played in the courtyard, a young man wrapped in thick furs strolled into the garden. Even from a distance, she noticed the unusual flush on his cheeks.

She had seen that flush before—a palace maid who died of consumption had worn the same otherworldly red tinge before her death.

This person won’t live long, she thought, just as a group of eunuchs and palace maids carrying bowls, food boxes, and dusters emerged behind the young man, calling out in panic. From their flustered words, she caught one phrase: “Crown Prince.”

So this was the Crown Prince? Her half-brother by blood? She knew of him from the palace servants’ gossip: he was the beloved son of Noble Consort Liu, named Crown Prince from birth; surrounded by the empire’s finest scholars, with more servants attending to his needs than in the Palace of Mental Cultivation; even his winter clothes cost hundreds of thousands of silver taels. He was the center of attention in the palace, the empire’s hope for tomorrow. His name was Huan—meaning bright and radiant.

Seeming to notice her, the young man smiled and walked toward her through the crowd. His hands were tucked into a hand warmer against his chest, his movements somewhat hindered by the cumbersome fur coat, yet his smile remained gentle and pure, without any of the arrogance she had imagined.

He smiled, showing a row of even teeth: “Little sister, what’s your name? Why are you here?”

She was slightly dazed, answering softly: “I’m called Ying. I live here.”

“Ying?” The young man furrowed his brow slightly, smiling: “Which ‘Ying’ character? There are many characters pronounced ‘Ying.’ Where are your parents? Do they live here too?”

She suddenly felt ashamed and angry. In her four years of life, no one had ever taught her to read: “How should I know which ‘Ying’? It’s the one with fire in it. My mother is dead, and my father—he’s your father!”

Surprised by her sudden outburst, the young man coughed lightly before turning to ask the eunuch beside him: “Wu Fu, is she Father Emperor’s daughter?”

The slightly plump head eunuch bent awkwardly, respectfully whispering in the young man’s ear: “Your Highness, she is indeed His Majesty’s flesh and blood, but her mother’s status was lowly, so His Majesty didn’t…”

“You’re very thin,” the young man interrupted, taking his hand from the warmer to hold hers, his pale fingers brushing over the scab near her wrist. “Why hasn’t anyone treated your wound?”

His fingers still carried the warmth from the hand warmer, almost burning hot.

She yanked her hand away, turning her head stubbornly: “No one cares about me.”

He paused briefly, frowning: “I’m sorry.”

She was startled—he was apologizing to her.

“I’m sorry,” the young man said between coughs as a light breeze rose, “I didn’t know. I rarely go out. If only I had met you earlier.”

She found it somewhat amusing—why was he apologizing to her? As if everything was his fault? Suddenly, her nose began to sting, a burning sensation rising to her forehead.

The young man reached out again, taking her hand in both of his and holding it against his chest: “I’m sorry.”

She tried to pull away as usual, looking up and met his eyes. One pupil within another, so dark she couldn’t see the bottom, yet in his eyes, she saw her reflection. Above the two layers of darkness was a layer of pure, water-like light, clearly reflecting her image: shoulder-length black hair, bright dark eyes, a pale refined face—her features remarkably similar to his.

Something preserved in their blood made her pause momentarily. Was this what they called blood ties?

“I’m sorry.” The young man kept repeating these words as he opened his arms and embraced her.

Her head rested against his snow fox fur coat, warmth seeping through from his thin chest. A faint fragrance emanated from within his robes, like lotus after rain—clear, pure, sweet, and alluring—drifting to her nose.

For the first time, she realized that besides the cloying powder scents worn by the eunuchs and palace maids, a person could smell this pleasant.

As if this fragrance had created a crack, all her suppressed emotions surged forth like spring rivers breaking through thick ice, flooding over her head, almost suffocating her—she was just a child after all. She feared darkness, she feared cold, and she feared that no one would ever notice her again. She was afraid she would truly be like a wild grass, silently born, silently rotting away, a life without warmth or light—so desperate.

“I don’t want to be alone anymore. I don’t want to be alone.” She clutched his sleeve tightly, as tightly as she had grabbed her mother’s clothes two years ago when they dragged her mother away for punishment by the ranked consorts. But her mother was ultimately taken away by those grotesque old palace maids, leaving her crying alone on the marble floor. The stone was cold, and the palace hall was so vast she could hear echoes. She heard her cries bounce back, so weak and tiny as if they would never be discovered by anyone, as if no one would ever hear her cries or understand her sorrow.

“Let me stay with you.” Tears rapidly welled up in her eyes as she gripped his sleeve and suddenly burst into loud sobs: “I don’t want to be alone anymore. I want to be with you, I want to be with you!”

The usually composed young man became flustered. He seemed to have never dealt with such a situation before, fumbling for a handkerchief while awkwardly trying to wipe away her tears.

“Don’t cry,” the young man suppressed his cough and softened his voice to comfort her. Like an adult, he gently patted the child’s back: “Don’t cry, I’ll stay with you. I won’t let you be alone anymore.”

She continued crying as if trying to shed all the tears accumulated since birth.

He held her tight, his not-so-broad youthful chest gently embracing all her sorrows.

He dried her tears and took her to his residence, the Jingren Palace.

A hot bath, new warm clothes, and a table full of colorful desserts appeared before her. Looking up, she saw the young man quietly smiling at her, his expression indulgent.

Instead of devouring the tempting treats on the table, she picked up a rose cake, jumped down from her chair, and held it to his lips: “For you.”

The young man bit into the cake, smiling as he stroked her ear-length short hair, his expression loving and solemn despite the cake crumbs at the corners of his mouth.

She giggled, stood on tiptoe to hold his neck, and kissed his slightly pale lips.

He looked at her with surprise and confusion, but soon smiled again, his face—more beautiful than a girl’s—taking on a rosy tint.

She laughed joyfully. For the first time in her life, she felt sunlight falling on her, warm and bright, capable of melting away all darkness and cold.

She knew that from this moment on, her life finally had something to hold onto: he was her brother, her protecting brother who would never let her be lonely again.

From then on, she became like a little tail following the young man everywhere. He gently called her “Ying,” taught her to call him “Brother,” and took her along for everything—from imperial lectures to writing practice and martial arts training, even during meals and rest.

Only then did she learn how busy the Crown Prince’s daily studies were. His constitution was sensitive to cold; even slight exposure to cool air during the day would leave him coughing sleeplessly through the night. Yet before dawn the next day, he would rise again, dress properly, and pay his respects at the Palace of Mental Cultivation and to his mother consort.

After returning to Jingren Palace, mornings were filled with lectures and reading, and afternoons with martial arts training until dusk. On festival days or when he had to attend ceremonial court meetings, these uninterrupted daily lessons would continue into the deep night.

He had a photographic memory—classics, music, mathematics, and military strategy posed no challenge to him. However, martial arts training was supervised personally by the strict Director of the Directorate of the Heir Apparent, with no compromise on both external and internal cultivation. After each training session, his face would turn exceptionally pale, cold sweat soaking his clothes, his heart pounding as if it might burst from his chest. She often feared he would suddenly collapse and never wake up, yet he would always manage a tired smile for her, gently patting her head with his trembling, cold hand.

Despite his busy schedule, he made time to teach her reading and writing, starting with the simplest poems, guiding her hand in writing practice with endless patience.

One night, while teaching her calligraphy, he fell asleep from exhaustion at his desk. When he awoke with a start, she finally asked him why he wouldn’t rest, why he kept pushing himself so hard.

He smiled and shook his head: “There’s too much to do. Father Emperor said that once you take that position, even if you work diligently for a lifetime, there’s never enough time, never a moment to rest.”

At the mention of that man, she fell silent for a while before nodding: “I only spoke to him once.”

He too fell silent, saying nothing more, but the next evening he evaded the eunuchs and took her to the Taiye Pool in the outer city.

It was midsummer, the pool’s waves gleaming blue, frogs croaking among the reeds. He pulled her to crouch quietly under a willow tree.

Just as she was about to ask what they were doing, he pressed a finger to his lips in a gesture of silence, his expression unusually playful and mischievous.

He winked and smiled, pointing forward. In the gathering dusk, following his arm, she saw a tiny glowing light rise from the pool.

It was a minute point of yellow-green light, so faint it would go unnoticed without careful observation.

After this first light appeared, as if by magic, two points, three points, more and more lights began appearing from the water weeds, from the scattered rocks by the pool, from the water’s surface.

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, her vision gradually cleared. With the fresh night breeze, she finally saw the dense swarm of faint lights flying through the air, glowing and moving slowly, joining together endlessly above her head like twinkling stars.

She dreamily reached out her hand, and a small insect flew between her fingers. It felt as if she had caught a piece of the starry sky. She giggled: “I caught a star, I caught a star!”

The young man laughed too, stretching out his hand, opening his palm to watch the glowing insects fly between his fingers: “These are fireflies. Aren’t they beautiful?”

She was delighted by these novel little insects, nodding: “Fireflies—is that the same ‘ying’ character as in my name?”

“No,” the young man smiled: “The ‘ying’ in your name has ‘fire’ at the bottom, while the ‘ying’ for firefly has an insect at the bottom.” He affectionately pinched her cheek: “But if one day you turned into a little insect, your ‘ying’ would become the firefly’s ‘Ying.'”

“I don’t want to be an insect!” She paused briefly before realizing he was joking, then squealed and started tickling him. They tumbled playfully into the grass.

When they tired of playing, she held his hand as they lay in the grass, watching fireflies flash past their faces. Stars hung behind these little insects, the brilliant Milky Way flowing across the deep blue sky—breathtakingly beautiful.

He reached out to catch a firefly, brought it before her face, and opened his palm. The insect, with its flickering light, slowly flew away, settling peacefully on the pond’s surface.

He spoke slowly: “Ying, this insect’s light is so faint, just enough to illuminate its own body, not even reaching an inch beyond. But for this insect, isn’t it enough just to have light to see the path ahead, to guide it where it needs to go? Perhaps it’s precisely because their light isn’t dazzling that people don’t pay them too much attention or try to catch them, allowing them to live freely by the water. You see, there’s nothing wrong with having a faint light.”

She gave a soft “mm” in response, turning to rest her head on his chest, saying nothing.

She understood his meaning. That man who had abandoned her and her mother—she had once thought she would hate him forever, but if he wished her not to hate, then she wouldn’t hate.

“Brother, I just want to be with you, to be with you forever,” she said after a long while.

He laughed softly, shaking his head: “You say that now, but when you grow up, you’ll meet someone, and then you’ll feel that person is the one you want to spend your life with.”

She didn’t quite understand, asking: “You just happen to meet someone and then want to be with them? How can you want to be forever with someone you’ve never known?”

He laughed: “I don’t understand it either. That’s what my teacher told me.”

The teacher he spoke of was that strict Director from the Directorate of the Heir Apparent, whom she vaguely knew to be a learned and wise man. She never believed in learned scholars, but whatever he said, she believed.

She laughed, hugging him playfully: “I don’t want anyone else, I just want Brother.”

He laughed too, trying to loosen her arms around his waist: “Ying, stop… that tickles.”

She mischievously tickled him more, and they collapsed into laughter again.

As if to prove what he had said that night, not long after, he met that girl.

He met her during the autumn hunt—the Prime Minister’s daughter, only a year older than herself.

Unable to leave the forbidden palace, she couldn’t accompany him to the hunting grounds and never learned what kind of girl she was, nor did he tell her about what happened between them.

She only felt that something had changed about him.

After his return, he still smiled at her quietly, but behind that gentle smile was something she couldn’t understand.

That day, smiling like that, he told her: it turns out such wonderful things really exist—two completely unrelated people, perfect strangers, yet you want to keep her forever under your wing, hope for her happiness, more happiness than your own. Just having her smile makes even the most difficult journey feel less lonely before reaching its end.

“How I wish I could place complete happiness in her hands,” he sighed softly at last, showing an expression she had never seen before—gentle, serene, tinged with a hint of melancholy.

She watched him with slight bewilderment, remembering that moment of extraordinary tranquility. Years later, as that talkative young man grew up to become quiet and composed, wearing the mask of an emperor, she would often recall that serene, gentle face.

At that moment, that young man completely forgot the burden on his shoulders, forgot the deadly poison that could end his life at any time, and simply wished peacefully for someone to find happiness—more and greater happiness than his own.

She watched him then with partial understanding, and it wasn’t until many years later, when she too met that person, that she finally understood: such feelings do exist, born in an instant yet lasting a lifetime, immune to the erosion of time and distance, unbreakable by misunderstanding and estrangement, transcending life and death, regardless of status, forever blooming at the peak of life’s cliff, delicate and beautiful.

Was that love? She didn’t know. She only knew that after taking those hands, she never wanted to let go for the rest of her life.

Four years after meeting him, their father died.

With the Emperor’s sudden death and the Crown Prince still young, the empire experienced a brief period of chaos.

Suddenly, he was dressed in ceremonial robes and pushed onto the throne, various complicated matters pressing down on him without a moment’s respite.

He moved to live in the Palace of Mental Cultivation, and she followed him to that cramped, dark palace, witnessing him enter the center of the empire’s political whirlpool. In the daily surging undercurrents, his face grew paler, yet his gaze quickly developed an inner sharpness, like an unsheathed precious sword revealing its incomparable brilliance after initial tempering.

She couldn’t see his struggle with the increasingly ambitious Prime Minister Ling, but she vaguely sensed the gunpowder in the air, from the growing fear of Prime Minister Ling among the palace people and the increasing number of strange faces appearing around them.

Until one day, she witnessed the death of a food taster in the Palace of Mental Cultivation. The female official collapsed under the table, her face turning blue, moments after tasting milk brought from the imperial kitchen.

He rushed down from his seat to help the woman, but his newly learned medical skills weren’t enough to save the poisoned victim. The poisoner had used an extremely potent toxin that could kill instantly. Using such a poison—perhaps the perpetrator wasn’t aiming to take his life, but rather sending a warning?

That day, he silently watched the body grow cold in his arms. After a long while, he stood up and smiled at her as she stood frozen nearby, patting her head: “Scary, isn’t it? Don’t be afraid.”

She shook her head and went to embrace his body, which trembled slightly from suppressed anger. Her body trembled too as she held him tight, her gaze fixed on the terrifying color of the corpse’s face.

Not long after that day, he abolished the rule requiring food tasters to sample imperial meals before consumption. One afternoon soon after, she found him and told him she wanted to learn about poisons.

He was somewhat taken aback, looking at her with a smile: “Why suddenly want to learn this?”

She shrugged indifferently: “Boredom.”

He had always been helpless against her wishes, so he could only continue smiling: “Ying, what do you need to learn this for?”

Instead of answering his question, she took his cool hand and placed it on her shoulder, looking up into his eyes: “Brother, can’t I learn something useful?”

He startled briefly, then quickly smiled: “It’s not good for a girl to learn about poisons. How about I teach you about making incense instead? It’s also about learning the properties of various herbs and materials.”

She nodded noncommittally: “I just want to learn that kind of thing.”

He smiled somewhat helplessly: “I hope you never graduate from this study.”

She looked at him more impishly, smiling: “Then let’s do this—if one day I can make a poison that kills you, that will count as my graduation.”

“Oh? Then let’s see what you can do?” he smiled too.

She never had much contact with anyone besides him, so he could only be her teacher. To teach her, he first spent time learning various incense formulas and the properties of different materials, then passed the knowledge to her bit by bit.

Time always passes quickly when focused on something. Several years flew by imperceptibly. To have more space for making incense, she moved to the secluded Yinghua Palace, gradually mastering the effects of various fragrances and herbs, and thoroughly studying collected historical formulas.

Those scents that had once danced before her like elusive serpents became tame and intimate, becoming threads that wound around her fingers. If she wished, she could weave them into the most brilliant and gorgeous tapestries.

After mastering her craft, she often devised new fragrances with great ingenuity and brought them to show him. Initially, she would demonstrate in front of him, but later, feeling playful one time, she secretly applied fragrance to his change of clothes while he was away, then hid nearby to see if he would notice.

Unexpectedly, he smiled as soon as he entered the room, fingering the fabric and bringing it to his nose: “Borneol, orchid, and Emei’s Dream Powder—have you named it yet?”

She had cleverly used borneol and orchid powder to mask the faint scent of Emei’s Dream Powder, making the sleeping fragrance nearly undetectable, yet her carefully concocted mixture did not affect him at all.

She suddenly jumped out from behind the bookcase where she was hiding, making faces at him: “Intoxicated Immortal! That’s what I named it—Intoxicated Immortal!”

He laughed softly, with a hint of teasing: “Colorless and odorless, even more undetectable than Dream Powder—truly enough to intoxicate even immortals. A fitting name.”

She could only stick out her tongue at him in exasperation: “Don’t be so smug! Just wait until I make you fall flat on your face next time!”

Thus, half-serious and half-playful, she began their “dueling match.” With each new fragrance she created, she would devise ingenious ways to use it on him, yet every time he would effortlessly see through it.

One creating poisons, one neutralizing them—what others would see as an extremely dangerous activity became their endless game of cat and mouse.

As for her true intention in learning about poisons, he never asked, and she never said. But since she mastered the craft, no one in the palace dared to use poison for ill deeds anymore—who would dare show off their meager poisoning skills before her?

However, rumors gradually spread throughout the palace: the resident of Yinghua Palace was someone who intended to poison the Emperor. As for what grudge she held against the Emperor, and why he tolerated her presence, speculation ran wild—some guessed she was an orphan of the previous emperor, others that she was the child of a discarded imperial consort, and some even connected her to palace secrets from decades ago, supposing she was the descendant of a certain minister.

She paid no attention to any of this, tending to her courtyard full of flowers and herbs, arranging materials throughout her chambers. Surrounded by the fragrance of flowers and plants, she lived her days contentedly, as seasons of growth and decay passed silently before her eyes in Yinghua Palace.

Until that day, when she finished watering the asarum in front of her chamber and looked up to see a figure hurrying through the palace gates. It was a woman of dignified appearance, adorned with golden hairpins and jade ornaments, her silk skirts trailing on the ground, walking swiftly across the bluestone floor of the hall with determined steps.

Coming directly before her, the woman looked down at her: “I hear you want to kill His Majesty. Shall we work together?”

Was this the girl he had spoken of? The one who had brought that gentle expression to his face?

No, not her.

She tilted her head slightly, meeting those deep black eyes she had inherited through bloodline, and heard her own clear, crystalline voice saying: “Very well, I’m so glad to hear someone wants to kill Brother, Noble Consort De.”

The woman seemed to let go of something, exhaling deeply, a look that could have been either relief or disappointment appearing in the corner of her eye, hanging on that elegant face, somehow tinged with sorrow.

She quietly watched the woman before her, her fingers lightly weaving, creating a newly mixed incense with poppy powder added—non-toxic, but addictive with prolonged exposure, leading to cravings for increasingly stronger scents.

As the fragrant mist gathered like flowers at her fingertips, a thin smile curved her lips as she extended her hand: “Noble Consort De, this incense is for you. It’s called ‘Unattainable Desire.'”

The magnificently dressed woman looked at her, the sorrow in her eyes spreading uncontrollably, and finally, she reached out to catch the misty fragrance, softly expressing thanks: “It smells wonderful. I like it very much.”

She smiled brightly at her, yet seemed to see the storms of the Deyou era beginning to unfold.

The twenty-second day of the twelfth month in the eighth year of Deyou.

Standing before the Hall of Supreme Harmony, she watched as the man calling himself Gui Wuchang struck him down from the high platform with a single palm strike; watched as the girl he had brought out fainted on the platform; watched as Li Hongqing, the first to rush down, suddenly froze after frantically lifting his body; watched as Li Hongqing was quickly knocked aside and fell to the ground, while that man carried his body away, swiftly disappearing behind the palace walls; watched as the pursuing Empress Dowager’s face instantly drained of blood upon hearing Li Hongqing’s mumbled words “no breath”; watched as Prince Chu Xiao Qianqing, who had come out with them, carried the girl and broke through the heavy encirclement to the palace exterior, disregarding his own life…

At that moment, amidst the grieving and despairing crowd, she alone raised her head, looking in the direction where that man had disappeared with him.

She knew that man. Early in the year she had just moved to Yinghua Palace, one morning, she had seen him standing by her bedside, face masked, dressed in cyan, silently watching her.

When she awoke, he slowly removed his mask, revealing that face—still pale and refined, with that indelible languid weariness between his brows, but this time, as sunlight from the window fell on his face, she saw his eyes filled with gentle smiles.

Her nose suddenly stung with emotion as she crawled out from under the covers and lifted her head: “So you’re not dead?”

That man laughed softly, his laugh having the same gentleness as her brother’s: “No, I’m not dead, but don’t tell anyone, not even your brother.”

Before she could even nod, her second question burst forth: “Why did you name me Ying?”

He continued smiling that way, his tone light: “Ying—like a firefly’s unrestrained light. Isn’t that good?”

She stared at him blankly, then suddenly shouted as if in a temper: “What kind of light I am is none of your business!”

Through tear-filled eyes after her angry outburst, she saw him still smiling faintly, just like that young man by the pond that night, his deep black eyes seeming to contain the entire starry sky.

She was an unrestrained firefly—that young man had once said so, and now, she finally heard it from that man, the one she had resented, blamed, sworn never to forgive, yet always longed for his embrace—Father.

In the cold wind of the twelfth month of Deyou’s eighth year, she looked toward the direction where he had disappeared, then silently, step by step, walked over to pull at the clothes of Li Hongqing, who was leaning against a stone wall from his injuries. Very softly, in a voice barely detectable amid the chaos, she said: “It won’t go out.”

As if suddenly awakened, the wounded commander of the imperial guards anxiously grabbed her shoulders: “Ying, are you hurt?” Then he paused: “What did you just say?”

She looked up, rose on tiptoe to kiss his cheek lightly, and smiled gently: “I said, it won’t go out, that kind of light.”

A tear slid from her eye and fell onto her hand, the warm sensation gradually becoming clear.

Just like many years ago, when that noble young man who had burst into her small courtyard took his hand from his hand warmer and, without a moment’s hesitation, grasped her mud-covered little hand, so warm.

At that moment, she had vaguely thought that perhaps he truly was light—warm, capable of shining far into the distance.